“So you write a column for the newspaper?”
His question was unexpected. Her head shot up. Tru was smiling calmly at her. Her mind went blank. “Ah, wh—”
He dipped his head, his eyes holding hers. “ ‘Gotta Have Hope.’ Right?”
He was interviewing her. Saving her from the dead space she’d left open—but still she was supposed to be doing the interviewing. Maggie felt about as tall as the saltshaker sitting on the table. Surely they could shelve this disaster and send Amanda out here when she was well. What they should have done in the first place. Her making a fool out of herself was not going to do the rankings any good for television or her column. He chuckled, leaned forward, and laid a hand on hers. Maggie’s eyes flared wide with shock. A small, sharp gasp puffed from her from the tingling warmth of his touch.
The camera zoomed in on their hands—she saw it on the monitor.
“It’s okay, Maggie, you can relax. Why are you so nervous? I’m really not a scary guy. At least not that I know of. Kids don’t cry when I come in the room or anything.”
Relax? Ha! “I’m not scared,” she said, knowing almost the entire population of Houston would see him holding her hand. There was no touching in an interview. His touch, firm and warm, looked comforting and calming to the cameras when in fact it had thrown her system into utter chaos and had her stomach erupting in fire-winged butterflies. Fireworks were exploding in her skull.
She could hardly breathe for the “smoke.”
On the one hand she was amazed by her overpowering attraction toward him and angry that he was overstepping boundaries and turning his well-known charm on her for the camera!
That slow smile spread across his face—he knew she was scared and so did everyone else.
Speak, Maggie. “Well, just a little. I mean—” she gave up trying to smooth over the situation. After all, they could edit this out. “I’m a writer. I don’t normally do interviews. My friend got sick and they sent me. I am so sorry about this.”
He chuckled softly. His thumb was making tiny, soothing circles on the back of her hands. It was not helping her calm down in the least.
“It’s okay,” he assured her. “When I did my first interview, I was a nervous wreck, but it comes with the territory, and I got better. I just learned to relax and be myself.” He nodded toward the camera like it was his best friend.
And it was. Maggie knew the camera behind her was zooming in on him. The man was gorgeous and she’d eat her shoe if he’d ever been nervous in his life. He looked at that camera like he looked at her. He had a way of making a woman feel like she was the only woman in the room, and she knew from seeing him in other interviews that that look translated through the camera lens.
He chuckled. “Breathe, Maggie. Come on.”
Maggie sucked in a breath, willing herself to pull her hands away and gain control of this debacle. She’d let everything go south. She snatched her hands away and grabbed up the papers, snapping them on the table to straighten them into a pile. A question came to her and she blurted—“You must be a really great horse trainer. Who did you learn it from?” In her rush, she came off sounding like a school kid eager to share the correct answer to a problem.
He leaned back in the booth. His expression said he was laughing at her fumbling questions, like anyone else who watched this would be doing. Anger flashed through her. As irrational as it was to be getting mad at the man, it was all she could do not to glare at him across the table.
“My grandfather taught me,” he said calmly, oblivious to Maggie’s urge to whack him with the red folder of questions. “He had a knack of spotting a horse with potential to be a great Quarter Horse. And that was half the battle. People waste their time taking a horse with no inclination and trying to force them to cut.”
Maggie had seen Quarter Horse competitions occasionally on TV and after Amanda had first booked this interview, they’d pulled up YouTube videos of Tru himself competing. Because of this she knew Quarter Horses weren’t called “cutting” horses for nothing. They were lightning quick on their feet, moving in a way that would stop a calf from getting past them and driving it where the horse wanted it to go. If the rider wasn’t competent in moving with the sudden direction changes of the horse, then he could easily end up in the dirt. Riding and staying in the saddle took great skill.
“It doesn’t look easy to do. It sounds like you had a great teacher,” she said, proud that she managed to sound calmer than she felt.
“The best.”
“I’m sure you had the talent that it takes to be as great as you are too. Do you think your grandfather had the ability to spot that in a person like he could with a horse?”
He grinned. Why was he grinning so big?
“He taught me everything he knew, but Pops was so good, he could take a novice and have them riding like a pro in a few weeks.”
“Really. Anyone?”
“Sure, it just takes know-how and want-to. And a good horse.”
“That seems like it takes away from your grandfather’s ability.”
He shook his head. “No, not at all. Pops had talent and he taught me everything he knows. You need to know what you’re doing. Because of what he taught me, I could take a novice and do the same thing.”
“That seems like a pretty strong declaration. I don’t think anyone could teach me to ride, much less stay in the saddle on a cutting horse.” A chortle of disbelief escaped her.
He leaned in, placing his hands on the table between them. “Maggie, you are much too hard on yourself.”
“I am just honest. I know my limitations.”
His eyes dug into hers. “I could teach you to ride a cutting horse.”
“Wanna bet?” Maggie gasped, shocked by her uncharacteristic words. What was she doing?
Tru’s expression lit up. “Sure. You up for it? I’d enjoy bringing out the cowgirl in you.”
“Cowgirl—”
“He could do it too!” Someone exclaimed as the swinging door of the kitchen suddenly flew open and two sixtyish-looking women lunged forward into the room.
“You could do it,” they gushed together.
One was slightly plump with big eyes and pale silver hair that looked freshly done in the latest Betty White style. The second was taller with brown hair cut short and just finger combed behind her ears. Both of them wore big grins and wide eyes.
Everyone in the room turned to stare at them. It was obvious they’d been caught eavesdropping on the interview.
Shorty had swung their direction, storm clouds in his expression.
“Oops, sor-ry,” singsonged the Betty White look-alike as they both grimaced apologetically and waved at the camera which was now pointed their way.
Silence rang momentarily in the room as they backed up through the door, still waving, and disappeared into the kitchen.
A frowning Shorty stomped after them.
All the while the camera kept filming.
It was a regular circus. However, Maggie was at least relieved that their bursting into the room saved any more conversation about Tru teaching her how to ride. This interview had run its course—straight down the tubes, it had gone. It was time to wrap it up.
“Admiring fans?” she asked.
He was smiling, not appearing the least bit surprised by the event. “Friends. That’s Clara Lyn and Reba from the Cut Up and Roll hair salon. They and the rest of their buddies keep Wishing Springs in the know about everything.” His contagious grin had the camera crew laughing.
“They do sound like fun.”
“Oh, you can say that again. They’re full of mischief. Falling out of the kitchen in front of a TV camera while eavesdropping is normal for them.”
“Well, on that note, I think we’ll wrap this up.” She wanted out of there. Home and quiet solitude. And no camera.
And no Tru.
“Wait,” he said. “I hate to leave everyone thinking we can’t get you to ride a cutting horse. Let me at least
introduce you to my horse. Amanda had wanted me to show him off for the camera. He’s out in the trailer.”
“No,” she snapped too harshly, completely taken off guard. Amanda must have forgotten to tell her about this part.
“Come on now. The viewers would probably enjoy seeing him. He’s a beauty. You’re not afraid of him, are you?”
“I’m just not comfortable. I’m a city girl, after all.”
His eyes warmed as they seemed to take in everything about her. “You certainly are. But, at this point I know the viewers out there would love to see you at least pet my horse.”
Maggie swallowed hard and sweat dampened her armpits at the thought of stumbling out there on those rocks again with a camera rolling. And she wasn’t good with animals. A horse was big.
Before she came up with a way out of this new kink in the plan, the overbearing cowboy was out of his seat and holding out his hand to her. There seemed no gracious way out of this fix other than to agree. Her hands clenched. She plastered on a fake smile—a cover for the urge to scream in frustration. She glanced at the cameraman—her last hope to stop this, but he already had the camera hoisted to his shoulder with a goofy grin. His helper was waving his hand in a circle that she knew meant “go with the flow.”
Maggie slapped her hand into Tru’s and shot to her feet. She had a very bad feeling about this . . . very bad indeed.
A few minutes later, tottering back across the rocky parking lot with the camera crew trailing, she gripped Tru’s hand and her skirt as her hair whipped across her face. She was certain that no one on the face of the earth had ever looked more unprofessional.
“Crimson is my horse’s name. He’s a great horse,” Tru said as they rounded the end of the trailer. “Don’t run off. I’ll unload him.”
“Unload him?” Maggie laughed nervously. Running off was the best idea she’d heard all day. “But, y-you don’t need to do that.”
“Sure I do.” Tru already had the trailer gate open and was stepping inside.
Maggie watched in disbelief. This interview had gone to the birds—or horse. Tru untied the powerful-looking animal and led him out into the parking lot. Maggie’s insides quaked like an earthquake. She had never been good with animals. Small or large. The instant the horse emerged from the trailer, it spotted her and yanked hard at its rope with a loud nicker.
Maggie jumped back—too quickly—her blasted high heels wobbled, and that was all it took. She fell back and hit the ground like a cow crashing on an ice rink.
It was pathetic, painful in more ways than one, and a show of her complete klutziness.
Alarm rang through her as her gaze flitted to the wide-eyed cowboy, then shot to the camera.
It was pointing straight at her.
3
Tru headed back to the ranch after the interview. His conscience stung with regret for the way it had ended. He still couldn’t believe Maggie had fallen like that. She’d told him she’d never been around horses, but he hadn’t expected her to be that afraid. She had vehemently denied any fear, but nothing else explained the way she’d jumped back at the jerk of Crimson’s head. That fear and those red heels had been hard on her pride, not to mention her backside. She was tough, though, no tears.
Only steam pouring from her ears as she’d glared fire and brimstone up at him.
Her quick recovery and the way she’d joked on-camera about her clumsiness had saved the interview from going south like a runaway bronc.
But her anger at him became evident when the camera stopped rolling and she tossed those shoes off and stalked barefoot across the rough rock to her car. That had to have bruised the bottoms of her feet, but she was obviously too angry to notice, and that made him feel more of a jerk than he already did.
He’d deserved it. He’d taken over that interview and left her no alternative but to go along with him.
But what could he do now?
He drove through the gate of the Four of Hearts and was still trying to find a solution as he drove past his Pops’s house, then the barn, and stopped in front of his place. A long, stretched-out single-story house with a low-slung roof and a wide porch in the back. Growing up, this had been the foreman’s house. Nothing fancy, but it suited Tru just fine.
One day, if he married, he’d build something bigger, something more suited to a woman, but there was a big “if” on the end of that thought. An “if” he was hoping to find an answer to in a couple of weeks after he heard from his oncologist. But right now, he had a ranch to run and a reputation to build for him and his horse program. A program he planned would last long after this time spent competing for championships that would keep sponsors knocking at his door and paychecks coming in.
He was on the road a lot, and he’d seen what that kind of life did to many families. And he’d been thinking about family a whole lot lately. Not that he could do anything about it right now with all these responsibilities to the ranch and his sponsors.
For now, his Pops’s ranch being safe from foreclosure or takeover was priority.
“How’d it go?” Bo, his little brother by a year, asked, leading a bay horse out of the barn.
Tru closed the door of his truck and met him at the round pen. “It was interesting.”
Bo shot him an appraising look. “Not the answer I was expecting. You hate interviews.”
“Still do, but—” Maggie holding her skirt in a tornado of wind, her blonde hair and interview pages whirling about her. She’d looked about as put out when he’d driven up as anyone could have been staggering about in those red high heels. He smiled thinking of that first sight. Those fancy shoes were more worthless on that chunky white rock than a pair of spurs without boots. Though he had to admit her legs looked amazing in them.
“But what?”
Tru scrubbed his jaw. “My interviewer wasn’t a reporter. She got roped in to doing it when the real reporter called in sick. She was different.”
“How so?”
“I have to admit it was the first interview I actually enjoyed.” He told Bo what had happened and how she was a mess asking the questions until he got her riled up on camera and she started asking her own. Bo threw his head back and laughed when Tru told him about his stupid remarks. And her challenge. He didn’t say anything about her falling. The odds of the town not finding out after the local ladies told the tale were low, but it wouldn’t be because he repeated it. He knew the station would delete that portion from the interview, along with much more—like him taking over asking the questions. They’d salvage what they could and hope for the best.
“A bet? Not your smartest move ever,” Bo said, having stopped grinning the instant Tru mentioned it.
“Don’t I know it. You should have seen her, though. She was flustered so much I felt bad for her. And then she tossed out that ‘you wanna bet’ line and I just reacted.”
“I can already see the camera crews following y’all around,” Bo teased.
Tru’s smile turned into a scowl. “That’s not happening. They’ll cut all of that. The station won’t want their reporter falling apart on camera, and that was exactly how Maggie looked.”
“Maggie, huh? Did you get her number?”
“You don’t let up, do you? She lives in Houston. And she’s a writer for some column in the Tribune. I did not get her number. Despite not being a TV reporter, she’s still in the journalism profession.”
Bo’s left brow cocked. “A column, huh? Hey, maybe she’d write a column on you, big brother. Make you famous again.”
“Funny.” Tru knew his brother was ribbing him about his stupid move of the year, dating a high-strung actress that he’d met at a charity fund-raiser of one of his sponsors. He’d ended up on the tabloids more times than he’d wanted, and the last time it had been a big mess. One that he could only blame on himself. What had he expected from a media-hungry starlet?
It had ended badly when he’d tried to end the relationship, taught him a big lesson, and made him more grate
ful for his home than ever. He was glad to be back where he belonged for a little while; here on his ranch, on the soft disked earth of his arena with his horses.
He didn’t make mistakes with horses.
That wasn’t always the case with people.
As he’d proven once more with Maggie Hope.
The truck slowed, bumped roughly from the pavement, and came to a halt.
Jenna waited beneath the tarp, holding her breath. When she heard the truck doors slam, she prayed the cowboys wouldn’t need anything from beneath the tarp. Seconds ticked by that felt like minutes.
She was cramped from being in the rough truck bed balled up like she was, but she was farther down the road and that was all that mattered. The voices faded away as the cowboys walked away from the truck, and after a few minutes, she knew she had to take a chance and see where they were. Slowly, she eased the tarp from over her face. All was clear, no sounds anywhere near. Groaning involuntarily with stiffness—being curled up for more than two hours would do that—she eased up and peeked over the edge of the truck. It was a good thing the roads they’d traveled had been in good shape because rough roads hurt like a son of a gun.
They’d stopped at a gas station and it was pretty deserted. She didn’t have a clue where they were but, thanks to her little baby, Jenna’s bladder was about to explode. She had to go.
Hoisting her considerable bulk over the tailgate, she hurried to climb to the ground then ducked behind the trailer out of sight of the windows of the convenience store. She wanted to go find the cowboys and just ask them straight up if they’d give her a ride to the home for pregnant girls, but she hadn’t been having much luck on this trip. The men she’d run into were not hero material. Her life in a nutshell.
Her stomach growled and she tried to remember when she’d last eaten. She’d managed to swipe a piece of uneaten toast and a strip of bacon off a plate of leftovers at the truck stop the night before, before the tired waitress had gotten around to clearing the table near her. But other than that, she hadn’t eaten anything for at least twenty-four hours. Before catching this ride, she’d hidden in the back of a hay hauler and slept curled up between the bales when the truck had stopped at the truck stop for the night. It had been a pure stroke of luck that she’d overheard that the cowboys were heading this way.
Betting on Hope Page 3